


Vivid Memories

by Lothlorienne



Series: Tumblr challenges [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothlorienne/pseuds/Lothlorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written during the first hiatus, as an angsty continuation of what happened at the pool and how Sherlock is forced to cope with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vivid Memories

It had been five days since the night at the pool.

Sherlock hadn’t eaten.

All he could do was walk around the empty apartment.

He had used all his power to move the furniture and block the door. He didn’t want to see anyone. The only person he wanted, needed to see, had died five days ago.

It had been a terrible idea. Shooting the explosives. He never should’ve made that decision.

Sherlock closed his eyes and could still see the scenario. He had relived it for over a hundred times that week, and now he was going there again once more. The trigger was pulled. He himself stood close enough to the pool and fell in as soon as the first blast wave spread, safe from the blazing fire that followed almost immediately after. John was sitting on his left side, by the changing cabins. Trapped. Sherlock could see how his close friend shut his eyes and grimaced, preparing for the blast. Had John known how small his chance of survival had been? Now that Sherlock looked back on it, he knew that John had never stood a chance. He never could’ve made it out alive. From the moment he was dragged into this mess, he had been a dead man.

Sherlock let himself fall on the couch. The movement vaguely reminded him of that time when John and he’d had a quarrel. Sherlock had ruffled his hair, said something mean about John’s blog and then turned himself around to lie down, pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself as if it were a blanket. Actually, the only analogy with that memory was that he was wearing the same clothes. But Sherlock’s movement was now languid and slow, without the energetic frustration he’d had back then. There was no light in the room. He had drawn the curtains the first day after the incident. And this time there was no John to watch over him.  
Sherlock writhed uncomfortably in his position on the sofa. He was lying on top of a soft bulge, something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Irritated, he took a hold of the object and yanked it from underneath him – then froze in his position.

It was a jumper.

 _The_ jumper.

John’s favourite.

He slowly brought the clothing item closer to his face, almost as if he was in a trance. John’s favourite jumper. He recognized the feel of the fabric when he held it between his fingers. How could he have missed this before? He felt the caress on his chest, light as a feather, now that he held the jumper close enough to his face to smell it. Sherlock felt he needed to do this. He carefully took a sniff of the wool.

And John appeared in front of his eyes.

The cab stopped in front of 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock got out. John had only just arrived as well, and knocked on the door before they greeted each other and shook hands.

Startled, Sherlock threw the jumper on the ground, next to the sofa. The memory had been so vivid, so lifelike. It scared him. It tore him apart to see John’s face again, so close, almost close enough to reach out and _touch_ him…

He snatched the sweater from the ground, brought it back to his face and inhaled.

He was standing in the doorway, putting on his gloves. John stood up, leaning on his cane. He let Sherlock come closer as the man persuaded him to come along to a crime scene. John’s eyes could be read like a book. The pain of his memories. The dread of dull, daily life. That faint sparkle, a glowing dim of ember that lighted up when he was invited to follow his new flatmate, to experience something new and exciting. __

Sherlock was breathing faster now, quickly letting the air out again to inhale more of that scent, the smell of the jumper that brought back such powerful memories. He closed his eyes to make the recollection even stronger.

Sherlock was lying on his back. John was standing on his right side. He was angry, his jaw was tense and his voice and breathing harsh. He had come all the way from ‘the other side of London’, because Sherlock apparently needed a phone.

He held out his hand. For just a brief moment, as the phone was placed in his hand, he could feel the faint touch of John’s fingers brushing his. He hadn’t realized it back then, but that was the first time they really touched each other. However brief the moment, that was the first skin-on-skin contact they had.

Sherlock now pressed the fabric to his nose and mouth with both his hands and inhaled deeply.

He recognized the interior of Angelo’s restaurant, though he was facing the window. John was awkwardly trying to start a conversation, while Sherlock was concentrated on spotting their killer. He let himself be distracted when John started talking about girl- and boyfriends. There was an awkward pause after John’s ‘fine, good’, and Sherlock looked outside again. It took him a moment to realise what had just happened, and he turned to John. He hesitated for a moment, and decided to change what he was about to say. People had hurt him enough for a lifetime, and he had learned that sometimes, it was better to protect yourself and tell a lie.

Sherlock didn’t notice he was holding his breath until he felt the pressure building inside his chest, and the air burst out again through the fabric of John’s jumper. Sherlock opened his eyes. The memory had passed, but John was still there. It was absolutely impossible for him to be with Sherlock, but he was anyway. It was too dark to see anything, but the man’s unique presence could definitely be felt. Sherlock kept the jumper pressed close to him as he stared into the darkness. His voice was soft and hoarse, after not speaking for days.

‘I should have told you. I should have told you that instant how much I liked you. But I barely even knew you back then, and after that, it became obvious that you only wanted to be my friend, nothing more, and I got scared. I didn’t want you to break me by distancing yourself from me. It never could have worked out.’

He swallowed heavily, keeping down a sob.

‘And I knew I should have told you, even though I didn’t have a chance to be anything more than a friend, just because you deserved to know the truth. And you, you… _died_ , without ever knowing how I felt about you, how I felt almost right from the start.’

The wool was all clenched together as Sherlock hugged the jumper, afraid that John’s presence would fade and vanish the moment he let go of the fabric. He hesitated a moment before talking again. He could almost see John’s face now, that encouraging and gentle smile, asking him to continue. And so Sherlock did, though speaking carefully, even slower and softer than he had before.

‘But sometimes I wondered… did you notice? Every now and then, you gave me that look, and I knew for certain you could see through me. It made me feel terrified. But you still stuck with me, trusted in me and let me be your friend. Did you ever figure it out? Why I liked you so much, why I let you into my life and somehow it worked out, even though any other person would’ve disliked me? John, please, answer me!’

Sherlock was sure he could hear John’s soft breathing. It was nothing more than a faint sigh, but it was there, he was certain it was there. This wasn’t some kind of illusion, it couldn’t possibly be. John had to be there. And suddenly, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to close his arms around the man, to make up for all the times that he should have, but hadn’t admitted his true feelings. He was finally given this second chance, this moment to confess what he had wanted to say all this time, and maybe could have said someday if John hadn’t been taken from him.

The jumper fell to the ground as Sherlock leapt from the couch, rushing through the vast darkness. But as soon as he let go of the clothing item, the warmth, the comforting feeling that was John, had disappeared. Vaporized, though not into so-called _thin air_. The atmosphere was heavy and threatening, and made Sherlock feel so very alone and vulnerable again. The darkness that had been so comforting, was now attacking him, like heavy hands that pressed down on his chest and slid up to close around his throat. He didn’t realise his knees were wobbling until they gave way and he fell down. The man had felt numb and lulled, but now those feelings were replaced with a sharp pain. He snapped back to reality. He realised he was all alone in a darkened flat, feeling cold, hungry, tired. And absolutely miserable.

The pressure on his chest and throat was becoming too much to bear now. Sherlock knew there was only one way to make it go away. He let himself fall to the side and pulled his legs up to his chest, bowing his head to rest against his knees. He brought one hand up, clenched a fist in his hair and closed his eyes.

For the first time in years, Sherlock started sobbing.


End file.
